The Prowler and the Assassin
by scarletite
Summary: Assassin's Creed AU. One is the shadow that haunts the streets of Rome, the other is the force that keeps them safe. But these forces clash in ways no one would expect. [FangRai Forever Prompt #143]


_It's been a long, long, long time since I've been in the FFXIII fandom, but after reading some of the truly fantastic fics that have sprung up in my absence, I couldn't resist the chance to write it again. Forgive my poor excuse for an action scene, and also, there is a definite element of OOC that I couldn't help, given their roles in this fic._

_That being said, this is set during the Renaissance in Italy, around the 1500s, and revolves around Assassin!Lightning and Templar!Fang (her being based off the multiplayer character, The Prowler). Assume that Lightning is in some position of power, and Fang is a constant terror during the nights in Rome._

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**#143 - FFXIII/Assassin's Creed crossover**

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"No! No! I swear, it wasn't me!"

A man pushed and stumbled his way through the streets of Rome, eyes wide with fear. He had no ears for the shouts and grumbles of the citizens as they dodged - or were forcibly pushed - out of the way.

He cast his head back every so often as he sprinted through the streets, but he saw nothing. The lateness of the hour was his downfall, and the screams of a single man were lost too easily in the city of Rome. There was a wildness in his eyes; the look of a lamb being chased by a wolf. He did his best to escape, taking off into one of the back streets that were empty, save the occasional prostitute, who

The Templar came from the shadows above, donning hood and cloak in a way that was perhaps meant to mock the order he secretly served, or perhaps was adapted from it; either could be true, of that he was certain, knowing the woman as she did. She stalked her targets from the darkness, as aggressive and dangerous as a wolf, but with all the moves and intelligence of a panther.

A dark grin and a pair of bright green eyes flying towards him were the last thing he saw as the woman pounced from the rooftops, teeth bared like the wolf she was said to be.

However, as his head hit the ground and the blade neared his throat, the sound of metal scraping on metal rung through the murderer's ears, bright sparks lighting up the rapidly darkening street. The woman's eyes widened, and a snarl rose up on her face.

"Assassin."

Her blade was shoved back, and the would-be murdered stumbled with it, catching her footing in a low crouch.

"Templar."

The woman who stood before her was not a stranger to the Templar. Donned in the familiar white and red robes of their Brotherhood, her allegiance to the Assassin's was pitifully obvious. With a leather bracer on each arm, the distinct shadow of a crossbow on her back and the sword that had blocked her strike held tight in a deceptively small hand, the Templar knew that her opponent was armed to the teeth just like one, too. This was the only woman that the Templar could honestly call her equal.

Unbidden, however, a small smirk rose at the darker-clad woman's lips.

Rising from her crouch, the Templar shot forward to take the Assassin—who was maintaining a vigil over her unconscious target; the traitor that had dared defect to the Assassins—by surprise. Fighting was a whole lot more difficult when you were protecting something, left you more open to attack. And she was going to take that advantage.

The blade hidden within her bracer, almost identical to the one the Assassin wore, sprung forward as she dove at the woman with the strangely colored hair. Their blades clashed once more, kicking up more sparks and letting out an awful shriek. Pushing back on the woman's sword, she kicked her foot up, attempting to catch the woman in the stomach.

Punch, kick, dodge, stab. Their fight continued on like that for some time. It was a dizzying blur, a game of cat and mouse as they danced around each other. There was an unspoken synchronization between them, as if they could predict and react to each other's moves, long before they even thought to make them. Her opening, however, came in the form of an overextension on the Assassin's part, which allowed her to kick her leg up, her foot finding purchase in the woman's gut.

Choking, the Assassin dropped the blade out of reflex as a tan hand grasped her wrist. In a sweep, that same hand caught hold of it before it could hit the ground. With a speed that seemed impossible, she span. Sliding under the weaponless opponent's guard, sword shining in the moonlight, her blood boiled with a bloodlust that needed to be sated.

Just as she swung the stolen blade to bereave her opponent of her head, icy eyes shot open, practically glowing with an unseen fire.

She hesitated.

A low cry, akin to the shriek of a hawk, rang from her target's mouth.

The woman froze.

Lightning raised her fist into the air.

In a rush of air and with a true taste of fear on her tongue, the hooded woman propelled herself back into an alley, taking cover under the rooftop as arrows pierced the ground at her feet from all directions.

Laughing hoarsely, the Templar gathered herself from the ground, her grin every bit as dangerous and proud as when they had begun their duel.

The pink-haired Assassin glared at her, face unreadable, as around her white-clad warriors dropped down to join them in the street. They all bore the same uniform, the same strange eyes, and the look of utter detest was equal among them.

She was almost fool enough to try them, if it weren't for the two hulking men who dropped down on either side of her previously alone opponent, towering over her protectively as they glared at the Templar.

Sensing her hesitation, her equal, a woman she knew only as Lightning, spoke up. "Tell your masters that this man is under our protection. No harm shall come to him."

As she retreated into the shadows, avoiding the array of arrows that followed her, the hunter's gaze shone with the promise of a reunion, her voice ringing back through the quiet street as she made her escape.

"As you wish, bella donna."

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It took a few days for Fang to come to her, but she did.

Most knew her simply by the moniker she had adopted, assigned to her by the few that survived her attacks. The Prowler, they called her, The She-Wolf that haunted the shadows of Rome's streets. Lightning, however, knew her as Fang.

It was from her blade that the woman drew her unusual name. The bastardized hidden blade attached to her wrist was more like a fang than anything else; clumsy but effective. Their owner had put them to good use—that being a subjective word, of course—many times. Though whether it was her true name or not, Lightning could not be certain. In their eternal game of cat and mouse, a name could be a dangerous thing.

That evening, she was the same as she ever was; sly, dangerous, intoxicating. She acted as if they had not clashed days before. Fang's green eyes blazing and her lips curled in that same dangerous smirk that characterized everything she did. She rested her head at Lightning's collar, breath hot on her neck as cool metal licked at Lightning's throat.

Lightning's blade was already at her visitor's stomach by the time the woman pressed fully against her.

"Buona sera, bella donna."

"Fang."

She had not been caught off guard by the sudden arrival of the Templar, Fang often came to her like this; slipped into her bedroom in the fading light of day, trapping her as a predator did its prey. Serah was out, contracted on a mission for the Brotherhood, and her parents had been murdered years earlier. She had her childhood home to herself. And so Lightning allowed Fang's presence, but not without retaliation of her own. It was all part of the game, a test between them; push and pull, cat and mouse.

Things between the Templar and the Assassin treaded a fine line between dangerous and lethal, and Fang enjoyed testing her just as much as Lightning rising to it.

As her blade dug pointedly into the Templar's stomach, Fang merely let out a low chuckle, the sound of metal grating on metal ringing through the room as her blade slid back into its sheathe. Her lips grazed against Lightning's cheek as she spoke, voice low and sultry; ever the seductress.

"It is good to see you, Lightning."

Lightning allowed her own blade to recede back into her bracer, hand sliding up to infiltrate the shade of the woman's hood. Knocking it off without a second thought, she tangled her fingers in silky hair. Fingers finding purchase in soft, wild strands, she tilted her head to force their lips harshly together, blue eyes scanning her enemy's face. She felt a strange sense of satisfaction, being one of few to know the woman's true appearance. It was said that those green eyes and that catlike smile heralded a sign of sure death, and to run. But Lightning was not afraid of Fang, not like this, when the desire was strong in both of them.

Fang tasted of mystery and ferocity, and as their tongues tangled together in a flurry of haste and desire, she couldn't help but think that she tasted of something oh so wrong, so forbidden, and yet oh so right. There was a thrill in it, the thrill that kept drawing them back together. Assassins and Templars were not supposed to see eye to eye, and indeed she and Fang could hardly do that in the light of day, but in the darkness they met lip to lip just fine; all the rules and codes they had both been caught laying to the wayside.

Ripping her lips from Lightning's with a catlike smirk, Fang slung one arm around her hip and the other around her waist, holding her tight. Over scuffles and duels, they had learned that she was significantly stronger than Lightning in physical terms, able to overpower her when it came down to it. And when they met like this? She abused that power shamelessly.

Lightning pushed against the arms that surrounded her, not to escape, but simply to test Fang's grip. As always, her hold was like iron. If she wanted to, she could have escaped—there were a variety of bombs at her waist, and her blades, which was all she needed to make a swift exit—but the prison of the Templar's arms was a welcome one, if only in the shadow of darkness that the woman loved so very much.

Their lips met again for one long moment, Lightning's fingers tangling even tighter in Fang's hair as a result of her hold. A clash of tongue and teeth that was far more aggressive than the first ensued. Everything between them was a battle, it had always been; they had been clashing since the moment they first met, in a bloody showdown in the outskirts of Rome.

As she pulled back, she glanced down at the way Fang held her, eyes narrowing in on her arm, and the red shade that had blossomed darkly on Lightning's white jacket in a way she knew would earn her an earful from Serah later. Lying just above her own bracer, there was a tear in Fang's sleeve which did little to obscure the cut that wept freely beneath it, staining the dark cloth a shade darker.

Freeing her hand from Fang's hair, Lightning grasped Fang's arm, pulling it up to her face, inspecting it with interest. She felt no resistance, only Fang's gaze hot on her neck, making her nerves prickle. She was not so concerned, the Templar could care for herself, but she had very seldom seen the woman with a wound that Lightning herself had not inflicted.

Although their clashes in the bedroom were heated and passionate, their clashes in the streets of Rome that they both sought control over were even more so. She'd heard the other Assassins whisper of it, some with admiration, some with doubt.

"You are injured."

The dark haired woman glanced at her cut, lip curling derisively. "I suppose I am," she said, green eyes burning with a combination of lust and disgruntlement. "You've trained your subordinates well."

"They are not my subordinates, they are my brothers and sisters."

"I care little for the workings of Assassins," Fang growled in her ear, teasing at its lobe with her teeth as she removed her arm from the woman's hold. "Except for how they die."

Dark eyes narrowed in response, a fire ablaze behind them. "I suppose I could say the same of Templars."

"Ah, you could. Except, bella donna," Fang sneered in her ear, returning her arm to wrap tightly around Lightning's waist; this time, so tight it almost crushed the air out of Lightning. "Templars don't function like your little brotherhood does. We care little for each other, and each death only further services our ultimate goal."

"Which is?"

Lightning was pushing her luck, and they both knew that.

Rather than respond, Fang simply slid her hand down Lightning's leg, teasing the hem of her pants, and grinned roguishly against her skin. "Zitto," Fang whispered against her lips, sliding her hand inside.

And silence did fall in Lightning's home that night, except for whispers and moans.

When the sun rose, they would be mortal enemies once more, at each others' throats as they had always been. But in the shroud of darkness, they could pretend that what they were doing didn't break every moral code they had been taught. In the darkness, they could almost pretend that they were what they were never meant to be.


End file.
